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Chrysothemis
If thou dost think this wisdom, think so still ;
But when destruction comes, thou wilt approve
My better counsel, and be wise too late. \Exeunt.-
Man's ungrateful wretched race
Shall the birds of heaven disgrace.
Whose ever-watchful, ever-pious young
Protect the feeble parent whence they sprung ?
But if the blast of angry Jove
Hath power to strike, or justice reigns above,
Not long unpunished shall such crimes remain ;
When thou, O Fame ! the messenger of woe,
Shalt bear these tidings to the realms below,
Tidings to Grecia's chiefs of sorrow and of pain.
Bid the sad Atridnc mourn
Their house by cruel faction torn ;
Tell em, no longer, by afl'ection joined,
The tender sisters bear a friendly mind ;
]\laking her fruitless solitary moan,
Lil^e Philomela, weeps her father's fate ;
Fearless of death and every human ill,
Eesohed her steady vengeance to fultil —
Was ever cliild so good, or piety so great !
Still are the virtuous and the good
By adverse fortune unsubdued.
Nor e'er will stoop to infamy and shame ;
The war to wage with virtue's foes,
To gain the meed of never-ending fame,
Far, far above thine enemies.
In power and splendour mayst thou rise,
And future bliss compensate present woe !
For thou hast shown thy pious love,
By all that's dear to heaven above,
Or sacred held by mortals here below. [^Exeunt.
If thou dost think this wisdom, think so still ;
But when destruction comes, thou wilt approve
My better counsel, and be wise too late. \Exeunt.-
Man's ungrateful wretched race
Shall the birds of heaven disgrace.
Whose ever-watchful, ever-pious young
Protect the feeble parent whence they sprung ?
But if the blast of angry Jove
Hath power to strike, or justice reigns above,
Not long unpunished shall such crimes remain ;
When thou, O Fame ! the messenger of woe,
Shalt bear these tidings to the realms below,
Tidings to Grecia's chiefs of sorrow and of pain.
Bid the sad Atridnc mourn
Their house by cruel faction torn ;
Tell em, no longer, by afl'ection joined,
The tender sisters bear a friendly mind ;
]\laking her fruitless solitary moan,
Lil^e Philomela, weeps her father's fate ;
Fearless of death and every human ill,
Eesohed her steady vengeance to fultil —
Was ever cliild so good, or piety so great !
Still are the virtuous and the good
By adverse fortune unsubdued.
Nor e'er will stoop to infamy and shame ;
The war to wage with virtue's foes,
To gain the meed of never-ending fame,
Far, far above thine enemies.
In power and splendour mayst thou rise,
And future bliss compensate present woe !
For thou hast shown thy pious love,
By all that's dear to heaven above,
Or sacred held by mortals here below. [^Exeunt.
Electra. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.